


How to Save a Life

by phipiohsum475



Series: Boy [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Season/Series 02, Relationship Negotiation, Suggested BDSM, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-20
Updated: 2014-10-20
Packaged: 2018-02-21 21:27:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2483039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phipiohsum475/pseuds/phipiohsum475
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John’d attempt this, being owned by Mycroft for a week, and when it made no difference, he'd end his suffering, his life, and he could do so with the comfort that the most brilliant man on earth couldn’t convince him otherwise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How to Save a Life

Mycroft hovered over John. “You are killing yourself, John.” Mycroft’s voice held a hint of anger and John recognized the significance of any emotion sneaking thought Mycroft’s façade. John glared back, the whisky pouring from his pores, and in the sour stench of his breath.

“Fuck off. Sherlock is dead. You can’t fucking stalk me anymore.” John slurred slightly, but was otherwise understandable. He scrunched his brow, “Why the fuck would you even want to?”

Sherlock’s supposed death had occurred six months prior, and Mycroft was concerned that the doctor hadn’t seemed to appropriately move through the stages of grief. John laid sprawled out on the sofa in 221B, a bottle of whisky within reach, almost empty. Mycroft watched John over these last few months almost obsessively. He’d begun to do so at Sherlock’s request, but even now he couldn’t deny that he’d always been drawn the army doctor in a similar way that Sherlock had. The man wasn’t boring; he tolerated the peculiarities of the Holmes brothers just fine, which made him a marvel unto himself. However, unlike Sherlock, Mycroft’s interests tended to the more intimate side, as opposed to his brother’s platonic affections.

So as he slowly watched John succumb to something he’d never want to be; a man reliant on whisky to make it through another day; he had to intervene. And to his benefit, he felt he had the perfect solution. If John accepted, Mycroft could take the pain away. He could guide John through the grief and perhaps, on the other side, John could regain the normalcy he’d lamented during his fights with Sherlock. To his benefit, he could have John in every way imaginable, as he led John to health. He hoped, for both of them, that John might be despondent enough to take his offer.

“John, your reliance on alcohol is simply an attempt to forget. To lose control of your senses. I can provide this to you in a healthier dynamic. Let me help you. I can take control from you, take your grief and replace it with something else.”

John scoffed, “I fucking doubt it.”

Mycroft persisted, “Let me try. Give me a week. One week to see if I can’t help you. If you feel that nothing has changed, I will return you to Baker St. to drink yourself into oblivion. You will have lost nothing. If it works, you’ll be all the more thankful for the replacement to your current vice.”

John looked at Mycroft with a blurry consideration. “One week?” he inquired, resigned to attempt to fix his descent into the same illness for which he’d faulted his sister.

“One week,” Mycroft confirmed.

-o-

Mycroft maneuvered John into the black car waiting outside, holding John’s stumbling form as he entered the vehicle. Anthea didn’t look up; she knew why Mycroft was here, what he hoped to accomplish, and why. John slumped into the leather seats and passed out on the way to Mycroft’s country home. Mycroft had taken the whole week off, much to the concern of those who understood the depth of his position. He was ready to prepare John, control John, and help John deal with his grief in a way John had most likely never expected.

When they arrived at the house, Mycroft asked the help to carry John to his new bedroom and dress him in his nightwear. John would have to be sober to agree to the terms Mycroft was ready to offer. He wanted full consent to own John, body, mind, and perhaps, if he were lucky, soul.

-o-

John awoke with a vague remembrance of Mycroft entering the flat and offering him… something. He’d accepted, John presumed, which was why instead of being passed out of the sofa of 221B, he was in a ridiculously ornate room with silk sheets and wearing pajamas he’d never seen before.

He slid around in the fabric, the feeling was amazing. It must be nice to be Mycroft, without a care in the world, all the money you could possibly desire. John decided before even leaving the bed that whatever offer Mycroft had given him, whatever ultimatum, he’d accept. If he was going to spend all his time lamenting Sherlock’s death; lamenting his entire reason for existence, he could do so in comfort. Perhaps this was a sign. He’d been considering ending it all for ages. Maybe fate was giving him once last hurrah, and then he could empty the chamber of his gun into his temple and hope against hope that the afterlife existed, and he could be reunited with his best friend.

He eventually rolled out of the soft, comfortable bed, and wandered the mansion looking for a kitchen. After his nightly drinking, he preferred a breakfast of eggs, bacon, and whatever other greasy food that could soak up the stomach full of liquor. He stumbled into three bedrooms, two bathroom, a library, and then an office, in which sat a fully dressed Mycroft; resplendent in his three piece suit, as gorgeous as ever.

John chastised himself for finding Mycroft so attractive; his attentions should be focused on grieving Sherlock, not lusting after his brother. He meant to sneak out after finding Mycroft hard at work, but just like a Holmes, he spotted John immediately. “John, do sit,” Mycroft gestured at the empty chair in front of his desk.

John sat. He only recalled scratches of the previous night, but assumed that Mycroft had brought him to his house for a reason. Perhaps Mycroft had been spying on him, watching him waste his life to whisky. Perhaps Mycroft had news. John didn’t know, but he followed the man’s orders anyways.

“Excellent,” Mycroft complimented John’s obedience. “I expect you remember little from last night, but I will refresh your memory and offer you the same options I did then.” Mycroft leaned against his desk, placing his elbows against the cherry wood, and propping up his chin. “John, you have been unable to overcome your grief at my brother’s untimely death on your own. You’ve slipped into habits you once chastised your sister for, and I believe I can help you. I understand that Sherlock was your best friend. I understand, perhaps better than he did, that it was his entrance into your life that saved you when you came back from Afghanistan, broken and alone. I worry for you, John, both because of my brother’s devotion to you, and because I, myself, find you of particular interest.”

Mycroft paused and readjusted himself, leaning back into his chair, “I will offer you the same proposition I offered last night; the offer that compelled you to come home with me instead of passing out for Mrs. Hudson to find you, as she has for the last month. I can help you, John. You need to relinquish control, to give in, to allow someone else to teach you how to live, before you can do it yourself. Honestly, you’ve needed it since you came home from the war, and my brother offered a reasonable substitute. I can give you everything you need, if you acquiesce to me. Let me give you the guidance you need, and I can guarantee you will feel better.”

John contemplated all that Mycroft said, and tried to decipher the vagueness of his statements. Combined with the snippets of conversation he’d recalled from the night before, he asked, “You said it would take a week?”

“I suspect it will take more than one week for you to fully recover. But I also expect you’ll begin to feel better within seven days. Give yourself to me, for just one week, and we can reassess your options. Can you do that?”

“One week.” John submitted, thinking of his earlier decision.

“I’ve drafted a contract here, that will outline the expectations I will have of you, and that you can expect from me. In short, I will be your dominant, and you will be my submissive. You will bend to my will, and I will direct you in every decision you might need to make. I will control you for the next week. It can be completely platonic, or you can allow for more intimate scenarios to take place. It’s all in the contact. “Mycroft offered a thick document of several pages stapled together in his direction.

John took almost a half hour to read through the stack of papers Mycroft shoved his way. He understood quite clearly that he was to be a pawn for Mycroft, to do with as he pleased. Mycroft would essentially own his person, although provisions were clearly allowed for John to call off any scene with just one word. Essentially, John would be granting the whole of his personhood to the cool, collected, sexy ginger.

But the contract was for simply one week. And the sexual provisions required an extra signature; he could decline them if he so chose. But John thought of those soft silk sheets and the promise of death once they were no longer his. He’d attempt this, being owned by Mycroft for a week, and when it made no difference, he'd end his suffering, his life, and he could do so with the comfort that the most brilliant man on earth couldn’t convince him otherwise.

He signed the document, marked off his boundaries, few as they may be, and accepted Mycroft as his master for the next week. It would be delectable to relinquish control, even if only for a short while.

Mycroft flipped through the documents, and saw exactly how much John was willing to offer him. The signatures were complete, and he filed the document in his desk.

He looked back at John, and steeled his expression.

“Shower. I expect you clean, sober and naked in that chair in the next forty five minutes. If you fail to do so, I will punish you. And if you succeed, I will reward you.”

John flushed hot at the demand, and his cock throbbed. “Yes, sir,” he bowed his head in submission, and scampered off. Even if this didn’t work, at least it would serve as a distraction.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find more me on [Tumblr](http://phipiohsum475.tumblr.com/).  
> You can find more Johncroft at [MycroftandJohn.tumblr.com](http://mycroftandjohn.tumblr.com/).


End file.
